How to Fall Apart Gracefully
by Rhoda Nightingale
Summary: Part 1 of 3. A young girl, who at first seems normal, gets drawn into the Joker's den of thieves. COMPLETE: read the sequel, 'Queen of Hearts'
1. Prologue

AN: Hi folks! I want to preface this by saying that I know a lot less than some about the Batman universe, and it's probably going to come through loud and clear with this story. My expertise is confined to the films, a scant few graphic novels, and various interviews I've read with the actors and filmmakers behind the last two. I'm using Chris Nolan's version of Gotham as my backdrop here, and Heath Ledger's chilling – and flat-out brilliant – portrayal of The Joker. I'm trying to keep this in the same style and tone of those two films – _Batman Begins _and _The Dark Knight_ – but otherwise, I'm taking some artistic license here. That said, I've really enjoyed working on this rather twisted tale, and I hope you all will enjoy reading it as well! And do please RnR – the review button doesn't bite, I promise.

"How to Fall Apart Gracefully"

Summary: A young girl, who at first seems pretty much normal apart from the way she talks, gets drawn into the Joker's den of thieves as an unwitting ally. Little by little, she starts to fall for him. And little by little, the Joker comes to realize that she's not quite the innocent bystander she appears to be. For reasons that the girl can only guess at, the Joker finds himself unable to harm her, and this disturbs and frightens them both. This is a love story, just fyi, but a very twisted and unusual one. It's a smidge Mary Sue-ish at first, but bear with me. It's gets stranger, and more gruesome, as it goes on. (Really, I'm not kidding about that rating. This is NOT for the faint of heart. Or stomach.)

_Prologue_

I knew why people idolized him. He was cruel, unpredictable, dangerous - but with his anarchic nature came a freedom that I craved to my very core. He was fearless and wild, a creature of unstoppable force, following his own impulsive will and nothing else. We all envied him his chaos, his 'divine madness' as he called it. No one dared to cross him. We were all vulnerable by our mere proximity to him; the possibility hovered over us that he might murder one, or even all of us, just to upset the precarious balance we'd achieved in his company. We were terrified of him. I especially. Sometimes I wondered if it hadn't been a mistake to allow him into my life. He could do anything - anything he wanted, anything he imagined. Whatever he desired was his for the taking. But at what price?

He asked us once what we believed in. I didn't have an answer. So I searched my heart. And then I came to him. "I want to tell you what I believe in now," I said. His face, the unreadable mask as always, revealed nothing. But he raised a hand, imploring me to go on. "I believe in passion, beauty, and unconditional love. I believe in the goodness in men, and also their potential for absolute evil. I believe in the limitlessness of the imagination. I believe in forgiveness and redemption; and in bitter vengeance and despair. I believe in righteousness and justice. I believe that everything happens for a reason. And I believe in the power of the unsolvable mysteries of the universe.

"I don't believe that we're so different, you and I. You stand for destruction and violence, and I stand for compassion and beauty. But we are two sides of the same coin. We are both limitless beings, and although you frighten me I know that death is as meaningless to you as it is to me. I'm here because I admire you, your ruthlessness and your freedom. I believe there is magic in chaos and destruction. I've seen the brilliance of everlasting night. I've looked into the black void and seen truth, and peace."

I moved closer to him; perhaps he smiled, but it was so difficult to tell. "I know I mean nothing to you," I said. "We are all just pawns in your game - I understand that. I've understood all along. And I know that it's impossible to know your thoughts, except to accept that there is no logic or reason to anything you do. I don't need or expect anything from you. All the same, I want you to understand something: I love you. And I will follow you to the end of the world, if you let me."

My words hung in the air like a fragile tapestry woven in light and glass, delicate and exquisite. The slightest motion would shatter it. He told me there was no place for love in chaos.

"Oh, no!" I said, laughing. "Love _is_ chaos - don't you see that? It's unpredictable, illogical, random and completely without reason. It is an unstoppable force, 'divine madness.'"

"This won't buy you anything," he said.

"I know."

"Then what do you want?"

"Nothing. I only wanted to say the words, and have you hear them."

He stared at me, and I struggled not to lose my nerve. "You know," he said finally, "I believe you're the only one here who hasn't lied to me."

I smiled. "And I never will," I said.

He always said he chose me for a reason. I didn't believe him. I believed that he needed me, or someone like me, for a short while anyway, but I was replaceable. If I did something wrong, he would dispose of me without a second thought and find someone else. Or just do the job himself, as he sometimes did in secret. No matter how many times he tried to assure me that I would be rewarded for my loyalty, I never trusted him. Not even when I fell for him. No, especially not then. I could not trust myself when that happened.


	2. Chapter 1

AN: Wow – thanks for the speedy responses, guys! I'm thrilled. This is sort of weird little story, so I'm glad you're enjoying it. Just fyi, the lengths of these chapters wound up being pretty sporadic. I'm not sure why. I just cut them off when my narrator decided to quit talking. (I'm still figuring her out as a character.) Okay, enough blather – on with the story!

1: _In which a volunteer candy striper is offered a new position. . ._

Five months earlier:

It was one o'clock in the afternoon. Time for lunch for the overnight patients in the hospital. I will remember that day forever, the day he came for me. The time struck me because I was not supposed to be working. I was covering for someone else, doing my job and another's until the next girl came in to relieve me, and I was aggravated at being kept late. I had missed my break, and I was tired, hungry, and unfocused. I sensed the tension in the air, but ignored it. I told myself it was just my nerves; I suppose I should have listened, but then what happened next would have happened to someone else, and not to me.

I grabbed a lunch cart from the cafeteria and wheeled it through the sterile, linoleum halls, dropping off a small meal and a smile to every room I passed. Some of the patients liked to chat. I did not, but I indulged them anyway. It was my job. I was a good liar. It was easy to feign interest when I was in reality only counting the moments until I could leave without seeming rude. They all told me how sweet I was, what a nice smile I had, how I was their favorite nurse. I didn't bother to correct them. All females in uniform were called 'nurse' at least once or twice. I didn't mind as much as some. It was like being secretly promoted.

I took a tray off the cart and knocked softly on the door at the end of the hall. When no one answered, I called, "Lunchtime, Mister Weaver - I hope you're hungry!" and went inside. I gasped, the tray fell from my hands, and I stumbled backward, unintentionally shutting the door behind me as I fell against it. John Weaver, age fifty-eight, chronic liver disease. There was too much blood for me to discern exactly what had happened. And at the edge of the bed, sitting calmly with that terrible smile smeared in red paint from ear to ear, was _he_. He had a violet suit with wide lapels, a fob watch on a silver chain, and a meticulously embroidered lime-green waistcoat. The sleeve of his coat was splashed with red. I processed all this in flashes, the space of a blink, and felt my blood run cold.

He captured my eyes and raised a gloved finger to his lips. There was no need. My voice was frozen in my throat. He stood up. I startled, and clapped my hands over my mouth; I hadn't expected him to move so quickly. He took me by the throat and held a tiny silver knife, also red, just under my chin. "I'm looking for a little something to take the edge off," he said. "Maybe you can help me."

I couldn't breathe. His thumb was pressing too hard against my neck.

"No?" he asked. "C'mon, throw me a bone, nurse."

"I'm not a nurse," I said. My voice came out harsher than I expected it to, low and caustic.

He laughed. The most terrible sound in the world. There was no joy in it at all, so hollow and forced it was. Then he let me go. But he kept the knife where it was.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked.

He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "Depends," he said. "You gonna help me or what?"

"You'll have to be more specific. Are you looking for a small-time narcotic or something more substantial?" I didn't understand how I was able to speak so casually. I should have been quaking with fear. The sight of the dead man had startled me, but the terror was already beginning to ebb.

He said a name, and I understood. It was still in its test phase, the drug he was searching for. I'd heard it whispered about in the cafeteria, and behind not-quite-closed doors, and sometimes in the elevator when I shared it with the highly-paid staff who assumed I was either deaf or too simple-minded to follow their conversation. (This last was a handy piece of ignorance that I'd used to my advantage more than once.) I didn't know exactly what it did. Only that it was very expensive, very illegal, and that they'd been secretly giving it to John Weaver over a period of six weeks. It would sell for thousands, maybe millions, on the black market, and the hospital would be sued to the point of bankruptcy if anyone discovered what they were doing with it. I'd learned long ago that asking questions only caused trouble. So I waited, and I listened. I knew better than to show my hand too early.

I took him to the research lab and acquired a laundry bag to stow away whatever he wanted. I showed him where to find the experimental drug. And then I watched. It crossed my mind that someone else may have run for it, tried to expose him, to do the right thing. I did not. Not because I was afraid that he would hurt me if I tried. Or because I knew I would lose my job if the hospital realized what I'd done to help him. Or because the image of John Weaver's mangled body had paralyzed my other senses. None of those things mattered. I watched him, because I wanted to see what he would do next. I was fascinated by his strange body language, the way his fingers fluttered over the glass vials, and the delicate sounds they made as they clinked together. He hunched as he worked, pressing his painted face close to the labels to read them. He was going to sell it, and expose the hospital at the same time. There had been no need for him to kill Mister Weaver. No reason, no motive, no desire on his part to clean up the mess. I wondered if he'd done it just to get my attention.

"All you had to do was ask," I said.

He glanced at me and continued his packing. "Oh really?" he said. "Not worried about your paycheck when your higher-uppers get the truth out of you?"

"No."

He looked at me again, this time holding my gaze until my blood froze again. "Ah," he said slowly. "Well aren't you just full of surprises?"

I don't know what he saw in me then, but whatever it was, it convinced him to bring me with him. He asked me my name and I told him. My real name, not the one on the plastic tag pinned to my uniform. I didn't look back.


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Hi folks

AN: Thanks again for the reviews! I'm glad you think The Joker is in character here – that's not always easy, but I did the best I could with him. This chapter isn't quite as long; you'll be getting a hint of what's not quite normal about my narrator here.

2: _In which money is no object. . ._

The first job he gave me involved the hospital. I think he just wanted to see if I'd go back, if I'd be willing to betray the people who had once supported me. They meant nothing to me. I didn't spare a thought for what would happen to them. It was just money, and it was a federal hospital. They'd be refunded and restocked in hours, if that. I took what he asked for and brought it back, smooth as silk, no traces or mistakes. I suppose he was pleased - he thanked me at any rate. Some days later, he asked me why I hadn't asked after my share yet.

"What share?" I asked.

"Your money, little lady," he said. "Your share of the money."

"I didn't do it for the money."

"Then why didja?"

"Because you asked me to."

The mask faltered for a fraction of a second, but I saw it. He understood; that was all I wanted. I was not a mercenary. I'd considered what he was asking me to do, and decided I could do it. Stealing didn't upset me. Least of all from a store of chemicals that I knew weren't meant to be there in the first place. I did it because I didn't care. I knew he was testing me. I passed.

Sometimes I wondered what would have happened if he'd never found me. If my associate had come to the hospital on time, and it had been her taking the lunch tray into John Weaver's room. Had he sought me out personally? Or had he just been waiting for the first hospital worker to come upon John Weaver's corpse? If he'd found the girl who was meant to be in my place, would he have killed her? And if he _had_ sought me out, just how much had he known? I was certain he had not originally intended to take me along. Maybe he'd meant to kill me, or at least bind and gag me and leave me behind. But he'd taken me with him. Not by force. He'd asked if I wanted to join him. And I'd said yes.

Once he asked me to kill. I politely declined. He seemed unsurprised, but asked why I wouldn't.

"Please," I said. "Anything else, I'd do for you in a heartbeat – you know that. Give this part of the job to someone else."

"You weren't this reluctant when you blew away your boyfriend," he said.

"He wasn't my boyfriend."

The mask shifted again. I knew what he was doing. Trying to rattle me with his uncanny knowledge of my unsavory past. I regretted nothing.

"How do you know these bastards don't deserve it?" he asked.

"That's just the problem – I don't. If you know otherwise, feel free to do it yourself."

I felt the wrath come off him in waves. But he did not strike me. That wasn't his way. He never harmed anyone out of anger, even if it was justified. There were no innocent victims in his circle. We were all guilty. And he never hurt us unless he was trying to prove a point. My part wasn't finished yet. He was going to teach me a lesson, but not today. He still needed me.


	4. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for the reviews and views, folks! I'm taking a shot here and assuming that there are more of you reading than are reviewing, based on the hits I'm getting, so I'll go ahead and post the next chapter. But please, do RnR – the review button is your _friend_! Also, as I've continued writing this, I've realized that this story is actually Part 1 of 3. I finished Part 2 this afternoon, so I'll get to posting that as soon as this is done. This part (the first of the three stories I'm dedicating to this fandom) wound up at 11 chapters, and just over 9,000 words in length, total, and the others are looking to be similar. Just so you know what all you're getting into.

3: _In which beauty is found in unusual places. . ._

I didn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling of my apartment, the slanted edge with a spiders web stretching across to the top of the window. It glittered like silver, trails of white moving across the threads from the headlights of the passing traffic outside. I traced shapes and pictures out of the strands of the web. Buildings, animals, trees, hands. A jagged, ear-to-ear smile. I feared absolutely nothing but him. There was something very specific that he had in mind for me, and so long as it hadn't happened yet, he would protect me. I had no doubt in his ability to keep me safe and healthy so long as it suited his interests. And then, he would kill me.

It wasn't such a bad way to go. Better than wasting away in a bed, with monthly visits from old friends who only pretended to love me out of obligation. Better than waiting my turn on Death Row. Better than burning at the stake. All of which I'd experienced, and was not eager to repeat. Although sometimes I questioned my desire to remain under his control. I was not one to bend myself to another's will, however strange and irresistible that individual might be. Perhaps I wanted to teach him a lesson. To prove to him that I was not, as he assumed we all were, susceptible to corruption and evil. I had done things that many believed were evil, but I was not ashamed. My faith in my decisions was unyielding, and it bore no weight against my conscience.

He didn't understand me, and that frustrated him. His world was a stained glass window, decorative and colorful, but all the more glorious when it was smashed with a wrecking ball. He saw more beauty watching all the fragments fall, glittering and sharp, in a thousand tiny splinters to the ground. The moment of destruction was the moment of greatest importance to him, the moment in which the facade slipped away and the truth could no longer be contained or painted over. But he had not broken me yet. He was observing me, waiting, searching for the very spot towards which he ought to direct the blow, in order to create the most spectacular effect when he finally destroyed me. Or maybe he was deciding whether it was worthwhile to destroy me at all. Because the longer he looked, the more I showed him, and the more he wanted to see. His eye would be drawn to miniscule corner, an exquisite detail that he had not noticed before, and he would stare, and ponder, and wonder at it. And just as he thought he had me figured out, another detail would emerge, and capture his fascination again. His impatience and his curiosity battled for purchase every time he looked at me.

He wanted to know why I spoke in flowery, poetic prose. Why I was distracted by the scattered beauty of the stars. Why I didn't fear death. Why, after spending so much time in his company, I still found it easy to see hope and justice in the world. He asked me all those things, but I did not know how to answer. I couldn't explain the way I was. I just _was_. He might as well have asked me why I breathed, or why my eyes were blue.

I never asked him anything. I just watched. And listened.


	5. Chapter 4

AN: Two reviews in one day – keep 'em coming, folks! I'll try not to post so quickly, so everyone has more of a chance to read through and get caught up, so this will be my last posting until after the weekend. (Also the chapter that follows this one is much longer.) Enjoy!

4: _In which a promise is made. . ._

The thugs who paid him off for the experimental drug were unsuspecting of his twisted nature. No one got something for nothing. He framed them for the robbery and effectively destroyed them, and the hospital, in one fell swoop. Then he used the money to bribe others to join his unholy union. He never had to bribe me. I stayed because I wanted to be near him. I felt safer near him, knowing that anyone else who would take it into their heads to punish me for my alleged discretions would be no match for him. But that moment, when he turned traitor to the thugs and hospital at once, was the moment I began to fall for him. His deception was clever, but that wasn't why. I liked that he didn't keep the money, or spend it on lavish, ridiculous things. It was a tool, a symbol, not a possession.

One day I asked him to kill me. "Not today," I explained, when he raised an eyebrow at me. "But when it's time, I want _you_ to do it. Not one of them." He knew who I meant.

"What if you die before I can get to you?" he asked. "We're in a very dangerous line of work, little lady. Accidents happen."

I shook my head. "No. Not to me."

"Why do you want _me_ to kill you?"

"I want to know that I've done whatever it is you want me to do, that I've served my purpose for you. And I want your face to be the last thing I see."

He didn't have a response to that, and again the mask slipped. I'd just given myself a narrow margin of power over him. On the one hand, if he did what I asked, he'd be following an order I'd given, and the balance would change. On the other, if he ignored me, he was admitting his fear of facing me in my final breath. He had no trouble killing anyone, for any reason. My asking for it changed things. No one would know it but the two of us, of course. He would resent me for that.

I locked my eyes on his and drew as close as I could without touching him. "Promise me," I said.

He drew himself up to his full height, utterly expressionless. And nodded. Barely perceptible. He did not want the others to see.

"Thank you," I said softly.


	6. Chapter 5

AN: It's after midnight – I say the weekend's over. So! Thank you so much everyone for the lovely reviews – I feel all special! To answer your question, 'Feathers,' The Joker isn't going to show his more psychotic side for a while yet. You'll see it a bit towards the end of this story – chapters seven and eight-ish, I don't exactly remember, but this is more focused on his relationship with the narrator than his penchant for blowing things up and destroying people's lives. (That'll come in the next couple of stories.) I've also added Bruce Wayne/Batman to the character list; you'll see why in chapter 6. Oh, and it appears this story has been added to the 'Mary-Sue and Harley Who?' community – Yay! I'm not sure whether I should be taking that as a compliment or not, but I haven't been added to a community before, so it's still exciting. Okay: This next chapter is a turning point of sorts. I hope you like it!

5: _In which the soporific power of memories is unleashed. . ._

"I have a job for you." The words I had dreaded since he met me. His intuition frightened me sometimes. He was unusually perceptive, and could predict and exploit whatever fears he found in his victims. But he saw more than just fear. He saw doubt, anxiety, secrets, perversions – all the dimly lit corners of what people kept most quiet, even from themselves. Fear was useful, but more often he chose to seek out the potential for corruption. Why light the fires himself when he could just as easily watch the blaze ignite of its own will?

The thing people feared most about him was the truth behind his words. He spoke madness, but he was not crazy. His victims denied him passionately, but eventually they understood that he was right. Like the witch in the old fairy tale, he understood the world and everyone in it better than the so-called 'normal people' from whose company he'd been cast away. He was cruel, but he saw the truth more clearly than anyone.

I saw things too. Things he missed. I whispered them in his ear when the others weren't looking. I reported to him in private, so that he could consider and make his plans accordingly. The things I saw were different. It wasn't intuition. It was something else. Something I'd had my whole life, and the lives before it. I hadn't let anyone know this before. It was a dangerous secret, and could end me more completely than death if used against me. I told him everything. He kept my secrets selfishly to himself, as I'd hoped he would.

We were meant to search a mansion one night. He brought me along "in case of any accidents" and told me to keep an eye on the supposedly empty rooms. All places had energy, a residue left behind by those who have shared the air around them. Every particle was charged with life, and memory. He didn't know how to read them, but I did.

He left me in the kitchen while he led the others to a locked away place in the basement. Officially, my task was to keep watch and alert them if anyone turned up to try to stop us. I knew my real assignment. He was testing the limits of my abilities. He wanted to know exactly what I was capable of.

I left the kitchen and wandered through the emptiness, palms up, fingers spread, sifting through the air like vaporous sand. It was warm here, and close. A merry house, bustling with life and happiness. It calmed me. I took my steps slowly, not wanting to upset the peace.

Then I crossed a threshold that stopped my breath. This room was pulsing with raw, unencumbered delight. I closed my eyes and stepped inside. The joy melted through me, swirling around me in invisible currents, making the air lighter and heavier at the same time. It was a ballroom. I tilted my head slightly. There: I could hear the music. Very faint, sweet and lilting, a melody on strings and woodwinds. My hands floated out from my sides, settling on an imaginary partner, and I began to turn.

I had danced this dance before, centuries ago, but I still knew the steps by heart. The first man to break my heart had wooed me with this dance, and this song. I did not believe in coincidences. But for now, I dared not disrupt the fragile euphoria in the air. I waltzed through the old ballroom, eyes closed, embracing nothing. It had been so long since I'd been truly happy. I'd nearly forgotten how it felt. How wonderful!

He was watching me. I don't know for how long, but I felt him long before I felt compelled to stop. He was alone, and did not interrupt me. When the song ended, I let my arms drop, and I turned to him. His face was perplexing. At first the mask resembled anger, but I did not sense anger in him. Frustration perhaps, but that didn't quite fit either. His eyes were unnaturally bright in the unlit ballroom. His gloved fist was clenched around his small silver knife. I moved toward him, waiting for him to speak.

"What did you see?" he asked finally.

I opened my mouth to answer, but could not. My heart was too full. There was nothing left for my voice or lips. I bowed my head and laughed nervously. Then he reached for me, grabbed my wrist. The pressure of his fingers caught me by surprise. I wanted. . . I twisted my arm around in his grip and slid my hand into his. I walked backward and pulled him with me, into the center of the ballroom. "Dance with me," I whispered.

I don't know what he did with the knife. I doubt he could hear the music the way I did. So I led, and he followed me.


	7. Chapter 6

AN: Wow – I should delay updates more often! Thanks for the scads of praise, guys! I dunno about 'Goddess,' but I'm flattered all the same. And don't worry, 'Feathers,' I am going to explain a bit more about her weird abilities. Not quite yet, but in coming chapters. This one here's not one of my favorites. I'm not sure what it is that bothers me, but it serves its purpose I guess. Enjoy!

6: _In which an old friend makes an unwelcome visit. . ._

It was shortly after the ballroom that he asked us what we believed in. I wondered what he was really asking, and if he had an answer himself. It took me almost two weeks to give him mine. He didn't speak to me at all afterwards. He didn't give me any more assignments. He didn't keep me as close as he once did. I'd made him angry. It was nothing less than what I'd expected. He would never admit it, but we all sensed the change in him. There were cracks in the mask now. A few of the others whispered about me, hinted that I'd done something treacherous to him, unsteadied his resolve. But they had always hated me. Partly for being the only female in their company, partly for having been with him the longest, but mostly because he trusted me more than any of them. His resolve was fine. The jobs he set up always went flawlessly. All I'd done was persuaded him to care, just a little, for someone other than himself. He wouldn't forgive me for that easily.

One evening I was walking along the subway, and ran into an unexpected problem. Great wings in the darkness, adding to the hot, fetid breeze of the underground trains galloping past. I only had enough time to realize what it was, and what that would mean. The Bat struck me in the right temple. I saw bright lights, then black, then nothing.

I woke in the narrow wasteland between two towering buildings. It was night then. My first thought was disappointment at the unoriginal locale, and then relief that he hadn't taken me to a more official place for questioning. My hair at my temple was sticky with blood, and my cheek felt swollen and tender. I touched my face gingerly, and winced at the splintering pain. At least nothing was broken.

"Where is he?" The Bat's voice was heavy and unnatural.

I opened and closed my jaw carefully, testing the limits of my pain. I couldn't see The Bat, but I didn't need to. (Why hadn't he come for me yet?) "At the moment?" I asked. "No idea."

This time the blow came to my shoulder blade, and I fell. I didn't cry out; the wind was knocked out of me. I coughed and pushed myself back to my feet.

"You can't keep this up forever," said The Bat. "Your friend needs to answer for his crimes. And you're going to help me bring him in."

His impertinence infuriated me. I turned to face him, a hooded black behemoth with a strong jaw and eyes of steel. He didn't frighten me. "I'll die first," I said.

"He doesn't care about you. He'll turn against you in the end, I can guarantee it."

I shook my head. "You don't know who I am. I gave my word that I would not betray him, and I'm not going to break it."

He hit me again, this time in the ribs. This time, I didn't get up. He leaned over me and rattled off the list of grievances against me – the murders, the pilferings, the lies, the blackmail. He knew my name and address. My age, birthday, family members, trust funds. Every forged, human detail I'd left behind forever when I'd seen John Weaver's corpse.

I started laughing. "You don't understand," I said. "That's not _me_ anymore! I belong to him now. Nothing else matters."

But I _was_ frightened. If The Bat knew I was in his company, he already knew too much. I had to find him and warn him. For a moment, I panicked, fearing that I might, in fact, die before he had the chance to kill me. I felt the tears against my face before I knew I was crying. And then I blacked out again.


	8. Chapter 7

AN: Thanks for the reviews, as always! Just a quick update on my progress in general: I'm two chapters away from the very, very end of the whole thing. Like I said before, this story is the first of three, and I'm almost finished with the third now. I'll just keep steady posting until they're all finished, long as you guys keep reading them! I've noticed my 'views' on this story have now surpassed the much longer _Kingdom Hospital/The Ring_ crossover I did back in February, so that's a good sign, and quite exciting. Enjoy!

7: _In which love and despair keep close company. . ._

I woke up in my room, in the condemned manor house we'd been using as a base for the past few weeks. It was plain and bare, just a cot and a cardboard box with the most basic of amenities. And crouched next to me, his painted face watching me, was my unwitting savior. "He hurt you," he said. His voice was choked and hoarse.

"Only physically," I said. "I'm all right."

"No, not all right. That's _my_ job, remember?"

I burst into tears and flung my arms around his neck. The crushing bruises on my back protested, but I ignored them. I clung to him, burying my face in the shoulder of his satiny green waistcoat. He patted my back stiffly, still keeping himself at a distance. I loosened my hold on him so I could look him in the face. "I thought I wouldn't see you again," I said. I laughed.

Then he kissed me. His gloves were off. He held my face in both hands. I was struck by the texture, the warmth of his skin, and realized how young he was. An even thirty at the very oldest. He was not a repeater of lives, as I was. He'd come to his madness in one lifetime. I tangled my fingers into his hair and kissed him back passionately. He grasped my neck and pushed me brusquely away. He stood up and let me go, and I saw tenderness and terror in his eyes.

I'd done a horrible, horrible thing. My love for him was inescapable. But the thought that the sentiment could be reciprocated. . . It would destroy him more thoroughly than he could ever have destroyed me. I'd made him vulnerable. I was a liability now, a danger to us both. "I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"Shh," he hissed.

"You have to do it quickly," I said, and swung my feet down to the floor. "Before he tries to use me against you."

"Do what?"

I took the carving knife that I kept under my pillow and held it out to him, pointing the blade inward, towards my heart. "Your promise," I said. "Please."

Understanding passed his features, and he frowned. "You aren't ready."

"I am."

"Don't ask me just because you're afraid."

"I don't care what he does to me!" I cried. "Pain is nothing, I can withstand it. But if he. . . What if he puts me in danger just to upset you? What if he uses me to get to you? I won't see him take you away – please don't ask me to do that!"

Gradually, his eyes regained the sinister, intelligent gleam I'd grown so fond of these past few months, and the sly grin returned. "Well, little lady," he said, "We'll just have to keep you out of danger, won't we?" He took the knife from my hands and set it safely on the ground. I reached for him, and he pulled me to my feet. "I have a present for you," he said.

He led me into the walk-in pantry we were using as an armory. The others shot cold-hearted malice at us both; we wouldn't be able to trust them much longer. My mind reeled, wandering through scenarios in which they could turn on us, and in which we could still prevail over them.

And then I saw it. He had laid it out on a little wooden table barely large enough to accommodate its girth. My mouth fell open in wonder. I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye.

"How did you. . .?" I started.

"Spoils of war," he said, and he gave me a wink. "I'll spare you the details. But it's yours, if you want it."

It _was_ mine. Sixteen inches of leather-wrapped iron, a hilt that just fit my two-handed grip; over a meter's length of flat iron, beaten and shaped as wide as the span of my hand at the hilt, tapering to a lethal point at the very end; the blade gleamed white at the sharp end, keen enough to split hairs, but was blackened at the flat. My battle sword, my oldest friend, who had seen almost as many ages as I had. I thought I'd lost it. It was not a thing of beauty. It was functional, heavy, blood-thirsty. No time had been wasted on decorative filigree in its design.

I took up the handle and wound my fingers around the grip. The leather had gotten soft with age and use, worn, comfortable. I swung the blade upward; my comrade took a step back to give me room. The weight of it felt good, and the sound it made as the blade severed the air. So many memories. I laid my hand against the flat of the blade and breathed in. Then I raised it high over my head and brought it down over the wooden table. With a cracking sound and a splintering of dusty maple, the table cleaved perfectly in half.

He met my eye through the rising dust. And smiled. With the hilt still gripped in my one hand, I went to him, dragging the unwieldy blade behind me. I would have kissed him again, but he put his hand out against my chest, just under my throat, and stopped me. "We have work to do," he said.


	9. Chapter 8

AN: Holy cow – five reviews for one chapter? You kids are gonna spoil me rotten! Although that chapter is definitely one of _my _favorites, so I understand your enthusiasm, heh. Thanks very much! Feathers – message me so I can tell you more about what's going on with the narrator. I'm not sure exactly what you're confused about. I am planning to explain more later, but if you could give me specifics, I would have a better idea about what needs work here.

Okay, so this chapter is mostly filler to set up the next one, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. (I noticed no one got the _Silent Hill_ reference I mentioned in the summary, or at least chose not to mention it – that's cool. But check out game 2 or the movie adaptation for the details. -wink, wink-) On with the show!

8: _In which games are played. . ._

The first thing he wanted me to do was heal. He wouldn't allow me out of the house until my bruises were no longer visible. He sent a note a warning to The Bat, although I advised him against it – it was playing right into his hands, letting him know how much my discomfort had distressed him. He told me not to worry. He had everything under control.

Control. . . Coming from him, the word could mean anything. I still didn't trust him. I knew that the moment I did, that would be the moment he'd turn on me, and shatter me like the stained-glass window I surely was to him. But I did love him, completely and irrevocably. And if I'd learned one thing over these past few months, it was that he knew how to play his dangerous game better than anyone he invited to be players in it.

The others circled me like hounds. If they had hated me before, it was nothing to the palpable loathing they struck me with now. It permeated the building and wafted through the air like noxious poison, sapping my resilience to the breaking point. It was suffocating. They played childish little tricks on me. Simple things, like stealing my distinctly feminine underclothing and ruining it, then displaying it in some place of visual prominence. Infantile, but deeply mean-spirited. With my carving knife, I gave one would-be thief a scar from palm to elbow. Another tried to force his manhood on me – such a shallow display of dominance, the last resort of witless cowards. I relieved him of his right eye. My reluctant paramour did nothing to halt the abuse.

When I was strong enough, I began practicing with the sword. It rattled me to be alone for so long, while there were jobs to be done, havoc to be wreaked upon the outside world, memories and minds to absorb. I was unused to being still. I felt unsteady, dangerously close to the surface, as if my blood might boil over and foam out through my pores if I did not keep moving. It was maddening, but it gave me time. I channeled my excessive energy into my routine, sending out fibers of myself along the iron blade as I balanced, swung, and parried.

Once or twice, he watched me. He was aware of my restlessness, although he never spoke to me in those moments. I could no longer see his thoughts as clearly as I once could, and that troubled me. His mind usually rattled like an oversized pocket watch, constantly tick-tick-ticking, relentless and distracted. But around me, he grew cold and still. Just watching, and listening. I wondered if he was still looking for my breaking point, and what he would do once he decided he'd found it.

A week later, I was ready. He led the whole company to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, near the docks. The others were under the impression that a deal was underway: a select few of us were to conduct a false negotiation with a pair of slippery bureaucrats, while the rest waited for the signal to ambush and overpower them. I did not believe that was why we were there. The entire company was on edge – the result of excessive secrecy and distrust. Each man was suspicious of the next, and expected to be duped or betrayed at any moment. The atmosphere was thick with murderous fury. The smallest thing – a facial tick, a thoughtless word, a stray elbow – would set them off.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" None of us had seen him move. He was on a rickety catwalk overlooking the giant storeroom where he'd shepherded us in. All the doors were closed and locked. We were trapped. "There's been a slight change of plans," he said. "I won't be needing all of you tonight. The job I have in mind is an inside job – needs attention to detail. Needs precision, can't be too messy. Unfortunately, I can't seem to make up my mind which one of you is the best for the job. So you're going to decide amongst yourselves."

The mood shifted immediately. The men bristled like rats in a maze, confused and frightened, but hungry. I let their dread run through me, and focused on breathing, counting the seconds it took for the air to collect in my lungs, and then expel itself again. I could not afford to panic.

"You have half an hour," he said. Then he looked at me. "May the best man win." And then he was gone.


	10. Chapter 9

AN: Thanks as always for the wonderful, wonderful reviews! Mommys-Little-Nightmare – I can't guarantee what you're thinking, but I reckon you're right. Feathers – well, this chapter does explain a bit more about her abilities, but it goes more in depth about her past in the next story, so don't worry. It'll become clearer as time goes on. (Well, except for the sword. It has a purpose, but mostly I threw it in there because I thought it'd be fun.) However, if you get confused or can't follow what's happening, just let me know! And ringbearer - wow, what glorious praise! I have no words except THANK YOU! I just hope this next one will continue to hold everyone's interest, heh. (That's a slightly ironic comment, by the way – this, as you've probably guessed, is the climax of the story so far. I've been referring to it as my 'sex and violence' chapter.) And just fyi, this one is not for the faint of heart – this is where my M-rating kicks in. Enjoy!

9: _In which a warrior is tested. . ._

Knowing the real game was some comfort. I understood my assignment now: survive, or be torn apart by the dogs in the cage with me. For their thoughts were all perfectly aligned. The whimsical madman who was our leader had given them what they saw as a rare opportunity: the chance to prove themselves worthy of his company. I saw something else. I saw the perfect unity of their motives, how selfish and worldly they were, how unoriginal and predictable they'd become. He had grown bored with them. The only one who still held his interest was I.

The circle tightened around me. Blunt objects rose in grimy hands; pistols cocked and took aim. I held steady. I only had a little time before they struck. I took in my immediate surroundings, and had to stifle a gasp of surprise: my sword. It was tucked unobtrusively in a shadow on the western wall. Two meters distance, and a thug with a heavy chain obstructing my path. I had to be quick. The others knew of my previous refusal to kill on orders; they assumed I was incapable of killing altogether. That would not work to my advantage for long.

I ran for the thug with the chain. He stumbled backward, then raised his chain taut in both hands, preparing to loop it around my throat and strangle me. I grabbed the chain and brought it down, and him with it, lifting my leg at the same time and hammering my knee into his skull. He dropped soundlessly to the ground. I leapt lightly over him and took up my sword.

I barely had room to swing, the next one was so quickly upon me. But swing I did, and met my target. The blade entered at his shoulder near the neck and left cleanly below his ribcage on the opposite side; his body fell in two directions. Then the floodgates opened. They surrounded me; I swung in a wide circle and opened the throats of those standing closest in one motion. They slipped behind me; I sidestepped them and used the momentum of their blows to land them against my sword. They shot at me; I blocked the bullets with the flat of the blade and sent them ricocheting back to their masters.

The scent of blood was sharp, pungent, and dizzyingly familiar. But beyond that, my head reeled with the memories that spilled out of my foes as I struck them down. Every life I took flashed before me, just as it flashed before them. I was filled with anger, lust, shock, frustration, horror, and despair from all directions. It was overwhelming. It wouldn't stop. And so I dispatched them quickly, not waiting to hear their pleas for mercy, or their threats of further violence on me, or their jibes that my attempts to woo our master were in vain. I kicked, punched, slashed, and cut until the floor and walls ran red. My very last opponent lay on the floor, pretending to be dead already, but I was not deceived. I walked to his side and drove my blade down, through the center of his chest.

And then, silence. My breath came shallow and ragged. My arms were covered with crimson rivulets, as if my veins were now on the outside. My hands, clenched claw-like around the hilt of my sword, were stiff and slow to open. The sword clattered to the ground with a dull, deafening sound, and my fingers shook. My feet made ghastly squelching noises over the bloodied floor. I staggered backward, holding my hands away from me, my head down. I could not look; there was far too much to see. Echoes of pain and desperation, the last thoughts of the silent dead, battered me without mercy. I swooned and fell to my knees.

A lone clap sounded high above me, followed by another, and then another. I lifted my head; the skin under my chin was warm and sticky. There he was, applauding, surveying the damage with ravenous delight in his dark eyes. "Good job, little lady," he said. "Very, very good. I knew there was something I liked about you."

"There's no 'inside job,' is there?" I asked.

He grinned. "Oh, there is. And you're the only one who can do it." He took hold of a disconnected electrical cord attached to ceiling and lowered himself down. I got to my feet, never taking my eyes off him. He came toward me, eyes blazing, and I was conscious of nothing but his desire for me.

I don't know which of us reached for the other first. He grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me fiercely, crushing me against him. My arms went around his shoulders, and I pulled off his violet coat. He lifted me up, hitching my leg around his waist, and shoved me back against the brick wall; the blood was still warm against my back. I took his face in both hands and kissed him again, soft and deep. My hands left smears of red along his jaw, and his white make-up rubbed off on my fingers.

All sense of time disintegrated. My heart-rate slowed to a heavy, plodding pulse. Blood burned through my veins like acid, so charged with sensation I was. He took possession of me, exploring every crevice and every curve. His hands stretched my arms above my head. His arms went around me; my back arched at his touch. My leg curled tighter around his waist, pulling him close. My head fell back and my eyes closed as we fell into rhythm together. And through everything, greedy, voracious kisses covered me. I returned them with deliberate gentleness. He reached his pinnacle before I did, but he held back, waiting for me, bringing us both to the fall together. And then we sank to the ground. He kissed my neck and laid his head against my breast, and traitors' blood dried slowly on us both. Neither of us spoke a word.


	11. Chapter 10

AN: Much thanks, always and again, for the reviews, folks – group hugs all around! And yeah, that last scene is a bit messy, but I thought it was fitting. This one's a good deal less exciting by comparison, but it winds the story down – and as I said, we're not quite done with this universe yet. Commissioner Gordon makes his appearance here. Enjoy!

10: _In which a choice is made. . ._

"You wanna know what I believe in?" I was unsure how to answer. On the one hand, his offer was extraordinarily tempting. On the other, I preferred not knowing everything about him. His secrets, his enigmatic, destructive nature, were part of what I loved about him, and I would not have that change for the world.

"No," I said finally. "You owe me nothing. You've given me more than I would ever dare to ask for." I turned my face to his and traced my finger along the thick, braided scars that marred his cheeks. "Keep your secrets. They're more precious than you know."

He smiled, and rolled over on me to kiss me. "You made a god awful mess, little lady," he said. "We'll have to do something about that before the law dogs get here."

I froze. "The police are coming?"

He laughed. "With me and every last one of my followers in the same place, at the same time? They're not all as stupid as they look, you know."

"How can I help?"

He pressed his mouth to my ear and told me his plan. My heart sank deeper with every word. This was it. The task he'd been formulating for me, and me alone, since the moment he'd found me. My part in his motley life was almost over. He gave me his word that we would meet again, but I could not escape the doubts that wracked my mind. I only hoped he would keep his promise, and kill me.

The part I had to play was not difficult. He helped me to my feet, kissed me once, twice, and then disappeared to set his plan in motion. I waited for the fire to reach the storeroom, and then I let the memories wash over me. Everything – all the pain, all the anger, all the terror of the men I'd killed. I let it all inside. I let down my filters, the mental blockades I used to protect myself, and allowed pure, excruciating insanity to overtake me.

His timing was impeccable. I ran outside, shrieking like a banshee, my fingers clawing at my hair, my whole body caked with blood, the very moment that the police squadron arrived at the docks. Flames engulfed the warehouse behind me; I felt the heat, but little else. I was dimly aware of strong, uniformed men restraining me and hustling me into the back of a car. Perhaps they asked me questions; I no longer remember. I spent the ride to the station trembling, blackness surrounding me, my breath coming in gasps and whimpers. It was like the first time again. Horrible. I would not have repeated it for anyone but him.

At the station, a female officer guided me to the barracks and helped me to bathe. She gave me clean clothes – shapeless, colorless, but clean – and led me back to the interrogation room to face my judgment.

I sat down at in little metal chair in front of a little metal table, and waited. Quiet voices reached me from the other side of the glass. "She's a gypsy," said one. "No birth certificate, no real family. We thought we had a lead, but it's nothing. She's gone by a different name every year almost. Chelsea Stratford, Lona Davenport, Abigail Jackson, Esther Golding – most recently she was Rebecca Waters, but all the names are just names. She's no one."

"And how long has she been with . . .?" asked another.

"Six months," answered the first. "But I have no idea what he's been calling her."

The door opened, and in came Commissioner Gordon. A tired-looking man, aged beyond his years, with a gentle demeanor and a trace of tragic hope behind his eyes. My spirits lifted the moment he set his gaze on me. He was a rare person indeed, with his clear-cut sense of Right and Wrong, and his kindness. It comforted me. I breathed in and out and spread my fingers over the cool tabletop.

He sat down across from me. "Do you understand why you're here, miss?" he asked.

I nodded. "I've committed a terrible crime."

Sadness darkened his gaze, along with a stab of pity. "Yes, that's right," he said. "Would you like to explain why you killed those men?"

For a moment, my resolve wavered. Gordon was so earnest, so compelling. . . It pained me to lie to him. There was a choice before me: either to turn myself in, to do the right thing and watch what I dreaded most unfold – that being my beloved captured and punished for his myriad crimes – or to follow his instructions, to carry out the plan as I had promised I would.

"Because he wanted me to," I answered finally. Then the tears started afresh. Gordon reached for my hand, but I jerked away, stood up from the table. "Don't!" I rasped. His touch would have been too much. I covered my face and let the weeping spend itself out. Gordon waited patiently until I wiped my face dry and sat down again.

"We know they were all armed, convicted criminals," said Gordon. "More than likely, they would have killed you if you hadn't done anything. Self defense is not a crime, miss."

"I know." I could not meet his eye.

"Listen: The man you've been working for is very persuasive. We understand that. If you can help us, if we bring him to trial and you testify against him—"

"No!"

Gordon sighed. "It's understandable that you're afraid. But I assure you, we can take you to a place where he won't be able to reach you. You'll be safe. I promise."

I looked up. I arranged my features into a slow-dawning expression of understanding, and disappointment. "You think he did this to me," I said. "You think he _made_ me the way I am?"

Gordon frowned and opened his mouth to respond, but I did not let him.

"I have more blood on my hands than you can possibly imagine, Commissioner," I said. "Ask your caped crusader, your 'dark knight.' He knows the evil that I am capable of."

The pity in his thoughts sharpened; he still did not understand. He would not see me as a monster. Only as a victim, an innocent twisted and perverted by the man I loved. So I let my mask fall away, just a little. It was a tool I used sparingly, only at my greatest need. Just as I could absorb the thoughts and emotions of those around me, I could also impose my own on them. I did just that to Commissioner Gordon. I brought my memories to the surface, let him glimpse the bloodlust in my heart, the depravity of my past misdeeds. Gradual horror clouded his face; he stood up and backed away. I released him. Smoke rose in curling tendrils from my hands.

Men with white coats and clipboards decided my fate. I accepted it without argument. There was a trial, but it was little more than a formality. All the while, I listened with all my strength for his voice, hoping against hope that he would not abandon me. I heard nothing.


	12. Chapter 11

AN: Holy crap!! I leave for half a day and come back to find not only a new pair of readers but a dozen new reviews – wow!! Greetings from the MCRF, redmisery – and thanks a million, Devryn, for the plentiful kind words! My only regret here is that you two have come in so near to the end. But don't worry – I do have two more stories, the sequels to this one, coming up. Ringbearer: I didn't mean to give the impression that she's going to an execution, but...well, I guess you'll see, heh. Sorry it's so short - I guess it's more of an epilogue or a segueway to the next story than anything else, but I'm fairly happy with it. Read on!

11: _In which doubts are laid to rest. . ._

Asylum. The word meant safety, refuge, protection. Lies. Two armored guards led me, cuffed and shackled, through the padlocked gate. A tapestry of multi-layered madness rushed out to greet me, and my legs buckled. I swallowed, and breathed, and put one foot in front of the other. The tortured minds of the patients crashed over me in waves, like fever, like vertigo. The guards pulled me along, ignoring my resistance. An impossibly short while later, I was alone. The cell was padded, and the door was barred. There was no window. Only a small cot, a card table and folding chair, and a chrome toilet.

Everything had fallen into place exactly as he'd predicted. I had confessed everything, my hand in the deaths of our comrades, and his preferential treatment of me. All I'd had to do then was wait for them to reach the inevitable conclusion that I was mentally unwell, at which point I would be removed to Arkham indefinitely. My assignment was to listen. To study the hearts and minds of my fellow inmates and decide which of them showed the most potential, as new recruits. He would find a way to bring them, and me, out, once he had secured new headquarters.

It crossed my mind that this might be his final deception against me. It could very well break me, being shut up alongside so many mad souls. I could hear the hollow ringing as Harvey flipped his coin; the creaking of rusty wheels as the Doctor rolled back and forth in his wheelchair; the inane, psychosomatic babble of the Scarecrow, still clinging to his irrelevant medical jargon. Yes, I was in much greater danger here. I could shatter. Perhaps that was what he'd wanted all along. Perhaps he would not come for me at all.

An orderly passed through in the hallway, offering distractions. Dirty magazines, dog-eared books, old newspapers. I took a deck of cards. I sat down at the little card table. My hands trembled as I pulled the cards out of the ragged box. I divided the deck and shuffled once, twice, three times. Something fell out. A scrap of paper, folded tight into an inch-wide square, hidden between the Joker and the Queen of Hearts. My mouth went dry. I opened it. The words were written in a jagged, violent scrawl, with red ink:

"_I believe in YOU._ _–J_"

Tears blurred my vision until I could no longer read it. I clutched his note in my fist and pressed it against my lips. He _did_ love me. I felt it in my bones. How could I ever have doubted him? I knew then that I would love him, not just to the end of this life, but forever. And he would come for me. One day, maybe, I could convince him to pursue his divine madness without creating so much damage. I could show him my way, chaos through beauty and unfettered passion. I had destroyed as many lives as I cared to. I would do anything he asked of me, of course. But maybe. . . But not today. Today, I did as I had promised I would. I watched. And listened. And waited.


End file.
